San Antonio, TX (music; benny goodman)

I’m sitting in a café of Borders. Refusing Starbucks and coming to terms with this being the closest thing to a local coffee shop outside of downtown, I caved and made my way in. I’ve managed to occupy one of the lured over café hot spots in one of the two leather chairs, and it’s next to an outlet. The New York Times is waiting on the table to my left for me to attempt the crossword, and to satisfy the morning crowd of elders, jazz is playing. I’m settling into a perfect start to my day.

Other than the backdrop of the quartet, and the release of steam from behind the counter every now and then, silence has settled into the room. Seven of us at separate tables, finding refuge in the intimate solitude of each page turn. About fifteen pages in, they arrive. In their mid seventies, both gentlemen are sporting salted mustaches, round pot bellies and balding heads. The only addition to our silence is the tap of a cane, serving as a metronome to their canter. They cross the café, hike up their pleated khakis and settle in on the vacant couch directly to my right.

I mark their heavy glances in my direction as a small price to pay for war stories and 1931 ball game statistics. Anxiously waiting, I reread the same sentence over and over. Pages go unturned. My interest has waned at the prospect of farm stories; names from the olden days, like Ethel and Beatrice; pinochle results.

A low cough signals their beginning,
“Have you put more thought into what I said?”
“What?”
“What I said. About Twitter. Have you thought about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s easy.”
“You said that about Facebook.”
“But this is easy. Thirty seconds, tops, including picture upload.”
“Well…”
“You should do it. It’d would be good advertisement for your book.”

I’m frozen. The tooth fairy doesn’t exist; I’m clinging to hopes of Santa. I’m trying to block out everything that lead me to this point and focus in on the point of this gentleman being an author. I analyze his outfit in attempts to determine the subject for his book. His khakis rule out anything farm related. I also rule out traveling salesman, lawyer, and school teacher as his counterpart is clearly holding the upper hand of this conversation.

“… Here’s the thing. People will follow you. I rarely even post and I have 2,500 followers.”
My judgments diminish into curiosity knowing the followers I have on the Twitter for my van ring in at about fifteen.
“Maybe after I have a fan base…”
“See that’s the thing, you can build your fan base! You follow whomever you’d like and usually they follow you back. I’m following Fox News. I’m following several of our states candidates and I can read exactly what they are talking about on the senate floor after the lights go out. Even when they are out of the building they are discussing final decisions through Twitter. I can even read about what Michele Bachmann is twittering.”
“I don’t know if I can do another blog though. I still can’t figure out all of the applications with the other one. Every time I figure something out there are two more programs that won’t open.”
“But this isn’t really a blog. It’s Twittering. You write just sentences. Like you could say, leaving the publishing office right now, or new book available tomorrow.”

The pit in my stomach I had written off as a caffeine overdose is growing. I’m gritting my teeth to keep from returning the scoff they had thrown my direction. I may have a tattoo on my arm. My nose does have a ring in it. My hair is standing on end and yes, I rode up here on that bicycle that’s locked right next to his car. But what kind of old man is this? Tasseled worn brown loafers and the belt snug above the belly button may suggest he has the look down, but the moment he open his mouth it’s evident that he is soliciting false advertisement. I’m all for empowerment of our elders, but this is just crap. He used the words “twitter” and “blog.”

Elders these days. Humph.